


Hybrid Theory (Dioscuri Remix)

by FelixMcKraken



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:28:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23745319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FelixMcKraken/pseuds/FelixMcKraken
Summary: Life after the Cell Games has been both kind and troublesome for Vegeta. Then, with the announcement that Goku will attend the 25th World Martial Arts Tournament, he figures it's the perfect time to settle all debts. As the situation begins to spiral out of control, Vegeta finds himself yet again haunted by something from his past, and this time he may be unable to escape from it.
Relationships: Bulma Briefs/Vegeta, Son Goku/Vegeta (Dragon Ball)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 21





	1. Papercut

**Hybrid Theory (Dioscuri Remix)  
1: Papercut  
  
**In the past, the Prince of Saiyans maintained a regular sleep schedule and awoke feeling rested despite any odd dreams. Now, he blinked at the peppy sunlight, annoyed that it was obviously past breakfast. He disliked laziness in himself, even as a part of him secretly desired it. Yet, at the same time, he refused to care. It was a cycle that he chose to ignore. Instead of dwelling on it, he slunk out of bed to perform his morning routine. Sleepwear went into the hamper. A quick rinse in the shower got his blood flowing. He brushed his teeth methodically.  
  
He stared into his closet. His navy blue uniform hung there, thin and flaccid. He could not fill that uniform. It was because he too was thin and flaccid. Some more colorful and free flowing clothing from the other side was chosen.  
  
Vegeta still felt a big groggy. He tried to will away the buzzing in his brain. It was altogether painless, curious, and – for a vast majority of his life – ignorable. However, there were times when he perceived the idiosyncrasy as being, for lack of a better word, louder. This was one of those times and he took a moment to meditate in order to alleviate the effect into a more manageable level.  
  
When he felt better, he went for his sock drawer, but paused when he took his in appearance in the mirror. In the bathroom, observation was one thing. Out here, dressed as an Earthling, it was another. Dark eyes stared back at him, and he could hear the words. There was some approval, and some indifference, but most of it was mockery. He didn’t know how to react, so he didn’t.  
  
The brunet left his room, traveling through the house toward the kitchen. He passed the locked door to the gravity room that was undoubtedly cold and stale from inactivity. His footsteps didn’t even slow as he very much did not look.  
  
He filled the day like he’d filled the others. With what, he wasn’t even sure. The practical, maybe. The mundane, for certain. He couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to something so unworthy.  
  
That evening, in bed, as the sunset painted his room in gold, Vegeta felt the confines of the house. He felt as if he’d willingly wandered into a cage and accepted the bars as if they were merely decorations instead of limitations. That he’d settled in the cage like a nest. He could take a Capsule and leave. Now.  
  
But he knew he wouldn’t. And that’s what confirmed the prognosis. He’d allowed these shackles to ensnare him over the past seven years. Well, not seven. Not yet. There was a still a month to go. A month to the day of his greatest failure.  
  
He thought about that man he swore he wouldn’t think about. A foreign object in the wound, preventing it from healing, but too risky to remove.  
  
Maybe that’s why he allowed the shackles. A part of him felt he deserved it. Vegeta hated himself in these moments. His pride would ridicule him for the lack of integrity. But hell, he knew that he wasn’t all that forthcoming or honorable to literally anyone else, so why should it be any different when it comes to himself?  
  
He tossed onto his side. He wanted to leave. He wanted to stay. He didn’t know what he wanted.  
  
Except he did. And it was impossible. So he lived day to day, and looked at the uniform in his closet, and didn’t put it on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I typically wouldn't post another WIP, but I just need to write as an outlet from time to time. I don't know how consistent the updates will be since I'm focusing on Nowhere.
> 
> Also, this work is based on a fic I've written which was strictly a V/B story, hence why I'm calling this one a remix. You are welcome to dig up the other version if you really want, but it'll definitely spoil core aspects of the story.


	2. One Step Closer

**Hybrid Theory (Dioscuri Remix)  
2: One Step Closer  
  
**If he was willing to be honest with himself, Vegeta would say the visits from Gohan were bittersweet. He held affection for him, for how much he’d grown into a young man as well as a warrior. For how he carried on the mantle of caregiver while still pursuing his own interests. How, despite his past traumas, he had learned to let go of his grief and embrace the non-human aspects of himself.  
  
But honesty was often a torture with no perceivable cessation. So instead he watched Bulma and the boy interact with a mixture of mild amusement and derision. The teenager was wishing to tweak his outfit and the woman enabled him. The costume? Ridiculous. Fit for a clown-  
  
There was a sudden spike of anger he had to temper down.  
  
No, no, it wasn’t that bad, he told himself. He’d definitely seen worse. And maybe the flamboyance was intentional to help protect his identity? The kid was smart. However, as he thought on it, he was acutely aware he knew nothing about Gohan outside his fighting prowess, technique, and general disposition. His taste in clothing could simply be this atrocious, but it was such trivial tripe to discuss, and Vegeta wasn’t one for gossip.  
  
The prince was, upon initial introduction, unsure how to feel about the moniker “Saiyaman”. On one hand it felt like his species was reduced to a brand or marketing gimmick. On the other, it expressed that Gohan viewed his alien heritage as a positive by naming his hero persona after it. He knew Gohan was soft at heart, still, after all this time, even after Cell. So he accepted it by not addressing it. Vegeta was known to voice his complaints as those around him were well aware of.  
  
Bulma and Gohan’s discussion turned towards school since that was what he was ultimately skipping in order to do this Saiyaman nonsense. Bulma cautioned him on his subterfuge tactics if he wanted to pursue university, but didn’t begrudge him his antics. After all, she explained, she’d spent her summer breaks hunting dragon balls. It quickly turned into a discussion about Goku which the prince did not care for, but also found himself rooted to the spot.  
  
This was classic form. He’d always get riled up, but he was always unwilling to distance himself from the source of the disturbance. The behavior was old, but his adherence to it was puzzling. In Freeza’s service simply making inquiries about your enemies was dangerous. It could let your enemy know they were a target and therefore make one of yourself. Or, if you miscalculated, you’d be intentionally given misinformation. Asking questions was a surefire way to draw unnecessary, possibly lethal, attention. So he learned to listen, to feign disinterest, and to pretend to be unawares. The trick was to be regarded as absent even while you were right there.  
  
Kakarot’s entourage was glib and chatty by comparison. He was certain they would freely share whatever he’d ask for. But then they’d know he asked for it, and he wasn’t willing to reveal anything that could be construed as vulnerability, whether it would be a passing thought, a fleeting feeling, or a simmering intention. Instead he would hearken to their words as he did around the soldiers in years past. Silent and completely unobtrusive. When he first arrived on Earth, he wasn’t sure if they were too stupid to guard their dialogue or whether they were so confident in Kakarot’s strength to protect them that they simply did not care.  
  
It typically turned out that the data gathered wasn’t particularly useful. If there was a fact given, it was commonly something already known or something he had already surmised. So why was he listening now? Yes, it was habit to gather intel, but _not on the dead_. It would give him no edge, no insight, no understanding. It only gave him that aberrant feeling in his chest, like a constriction. And yet…  
  
And yet he took in the conversation, standing there like a part of the surroundings. Then, to his relief and unexpected regret, they went back to modifying the costume so that he could participate in the upcoming tournament. Bulma went simple yet effective with sunglasses and a bandana. Gohan attempted to appeal to Trunks who had been sipping on a soda the entire time. He felt a touch of pride when the lad was clearly unimpressed.  
  
Then the woman had to mention that Gohan would win. Gohan who had been obviously slacking in favor of studying. Gohan who was on the cusp of seventeen, reminding him of the future version of his own son. The potential was there for a competent fight that would be a good distraction from all of this nonsense that had been constantly invading his life.  
  
He let his bare feet make a sound as he approached, “I believe I’ll enter the tournament as well.”  
  
Gohan lifted his sunglasses in disbelief, looking apprehensive at the declaration. Good. He had a theory that Gohan’s raw power wouldn’t be a match for his experience at this point in time.  
  
Bulma scoffed, “Trains like a madman, but he still can’t find a job. Exactly like your father. There must be something in the Saiyan blood that makes them allergic to work.”  
  
That was an argument which was not going to have outside witnesses, so he said nothing.  
  
He was, however, impressed that he had managed to ensure no one noticed his own slacking in training.  
  
And then there was the idea of a job, which was entirely laughable if it wasn’t so demeaning. Why bother when he could attain anything he wanted by simply taking it? Anything and everything was available to him. Anything except the impossible.  
  
The teen looked embarrassed by proxy, but Trunks was excited at the prospect of a fight.  
  
“Sign me up too!” a chipper voice filled the room. They all startled and peered around, but the culprit wasn’t physically present. That definitely put a scowl on his face. His immediate desire was to punch the owner of that voice.  
  
“Dad is that you!?” Gohan called out excitedly.  
  
“Sure is!” Goku chirped out happily, “Long time no see everybody!”  
  
We can’t see each other, idiot! he wanted to bellow.  
  
“I don’t believe this! What’s up?” the young Son was practically bursting at the seams.  
  
“Oh, you know, just staying busy,” he replied vaguely, “but Fortuneteller Baba agreed to let me come back to Earth for a day, and I thought the tournament would be the perfect time to use it!”  
  
Gohan cheered and practically did a dance in his joy which begrudgingly caused Vegeta to smile. He caught himself making the expression and let it fall into a more natural frown. There was that bittersweetness the teenager brought to his domicile. Interrupting the train of thought, Trunks touched his arm to gain his attention.  
  
“Is that really Gohan’s dad?”  
  
“Yes,” he answered his child before looking up, “and he better prepare himself.”  
  
“This is gonna be fun!” Goku promised.  
  
“Yes, I look forward to our rematch.”  
  
When Goku’s presence was gone for certain, he excused himself from the room. The steps to his closet were inconsequential, unnoticed. He stared at the navy uniform, slender and pliant. He wasn’t meritorious enough to wear it. He put it on anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, it's my first time really writing about Gohan and not having him in the distant background. I think I did him justice. Also, I'm trying to keep this version of the story closer to canon, but it won't be long before I start to wildly deviate. If you catch any errors, let me know. This story isn't as polished as I usually make it.


	3. With You

**Hybrid Theory (Dioscuri Remix)  
3: With You  
  
**The dream was different. He often dreamt similar to this when he was training, and he had learned to dismiss it as a side effect of frustration. And yes, perhaps obsession.  
  
But he hadn’t trained intensely in so long, and in turn it made his reactions, his defenses rusty. And perhaps it’s what made the dream different in the end.  
  
There was to be a fight. Kakarot was in his Super Saiyan form while he was not. Vegeta knew he was capable of it. He’d gone beyond it! And he had done it before, so many times. It was achievable with a thought, a flick of his will.  
  
But now, he just _couldn’t_. All the while the taller man smiled down at him and tapped his foot as if he was patiently waiting. Or as if he was humoring him, which was worse. Or even as if he was patronizing him, which was intolerable. He powered up, pushing his ki higher and higher, to the very limits, until his skin felt taunt, his muscles engorged, and his blood thrumming.  
  
It wasn’t enough. He pushed harder, knowing it would merely deplete him more quickly even as his ki bludgeoned at that limit, not managing to pierce it. Why? Why was this happening? He felt a sting in his eyes, and he closed them in shame. He would not cry. Most certainly not in front of this man again. Instead, he screamed, wanting his voice to bleed. The prince concentrated his energy into his core, hoping to force a reaction if the advanced form would not wash over the entirety of him at once.  
  
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” Kakarot said, his tone serious.  
  
He let his ki flare wildly about his person, the heat encompassing and twining like an agitated snake. The prince had made himself into an inverted typhoon, all of the chaos contained in a halcyon radius.  
  
“Vegeta,” Kakarot’s voice came as a warning. A warning he refused to heed because how could Kakarot possibly understand? How could he know when it was so easy for him? When every obstacle was perfunctory?  
  
The brunet’s ki wasn’t just torrid, it was biting. And it was beginning to burn. It was on the verge of combustion.  
  
“Vegeta.”  
  
The prince yelled out an inarticulate yawp. It was too much now for words, despite how he thirsted to howl out the truth:  
I know!  
I don’t care!  
I want to!  
  
Hands gingerly rested on his shoulders, causing his eyes to snap open. As he met Kakarot’s gaze, he felt his ki beginning to internally collapse. Sometimes they fought, in his dreams. But a fist to his flesh didn’t compare to the light pressure on his deltoids. It startled him: the incongruity of being intensely watched while being so genially touched. He didn’t like to be touched. It was an axiom he lived by. Yet he didn’t flinch, neither did he turn away, nor did he forcibly create distance. He didn’t know what to make of this.  
  
All the while he couldn’t maintain that raw force without either letting it go or damaging himself. His self-preservation won out and the white aura that had violently, crackly surrounded him faded away. He was panting, and it was a small grace that he did so silently as it was one less weakness flaunting itself in front of the younger man.  
  
With his power gone, he felt _it_ happen. The switch was part of his dreams that was normal. And while the experience was peculiar, nigh uncanny, it was also liberating in a way. It was never painful. He always concluded that it wasn’t anything more than the odd assortment of electrical impulses in his brain that took place during a REM cycle. So he’d learned to accept it a long, long time ago.  
  
“I can’t do it,” he heard himself say.  
  
“I know,” Kakarot responded with something that wasn’t pity but was earnest, “You haven’t found your trigger yet.”  
  
He wanted to argue that he had. When he was training for the androids, he’d found his pride was his trigger. He needed his pride like he needed air to breathe. This was the truth, and he had no qualms sharing this truth. But the words did not come out of his mouth.  
  
Except they sort of did? “I felt it all though,” he went on, “Living without pride wasn’t an option. It kept me alive. It kept me strong.”  
  
“But maybe it’s the wrong kind of pride for you?” the other warrior suggested.  
  
Which made no sense. At all. But dreams didn’t have to make sense.  
  
“And where’s your pride?” he found himself asking with a caustic edge.  
  
The smile on his rival’s face was… perfectly Saiyan. “You haven’t figured that out by now?” He was teased for his question instead of given an answer. He hated being made fun of. He did not – could not – tolerate such lack of respect. A curse was on the tip of his tongue. His body was an instant away from becoming a weapon to dole out injury for good measure.  
  
Instead, he witnessed himself meeting the other’s apparent scrutiny, intending to challenge him. Kakarot’s eyes were dark, but not devoid of character. This was standard of their species. He felt his own were like raw black tourmaline, and would be dull if not for the striation. Kakarot’s, however, were more akin to obsidian – equally as sharp as they were bright.  
  
The stare induced a type of electricity, like anticipation before a battle. He wanted to be mad, not gung ho. He wasn’t allowed.  
  
“Hey,” Kakarot’s voice came out lower than normal, in a manner he couldn’t recall ever hearing. It was a clandestine and satisfied grumble, “Have you found yours?”  
  
This… this didn’t make sense. His pride was in who he was. He was a warrior. He was the Prince of Saiyans. He-  
  
One hand – Kakarot’s left – solicitously, languidly smoothed up to his neck from its previous resting place. The sheer size of the appendage meant fingertips were allowed to course into the hairs at the nape of his neck while his thumb could simultaneously stroke the edge of his jaw.  
  
This was not-  
He didn’t want-  
  
His face felt tight and hot. “Kakarot, what are you doing?” it was only a whisper and hardly the harsh exclamation he wanted it to be. This was too much. Too gentle. Too soft. It reinforced everything he’d been worrying about. He was allowing the cage to be reinforced while he wallowed and watched. He panicked except that he didn’t.  
  
Because it was a dream. Only a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually went over this chapter about three times because I wanted the right amount of balance between incredulity and, well, coquetry. Plus it needed some nice hints of various things to come.
> 
> The next chapter is much, much longer and I'm not willing to sacrifice some of the story for the sake of picking up the pace. Hopefully, now that the holidays are over, I'll be able to return to this fic at least once a month.


End file.
